


Higher

by dr_zook



Series: Rockstar!Schwarz AU series [1]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Rockstar AU, unsolved tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Schwarz boys are a band, and there is (yet) unsolved tension between Schuldig and Crawford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Higher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuraya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nuraya), [Lauand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauand/gifts), [indelicateink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indelicateink/gifts), [Crescentium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescentium/gifts).



> Rockstar!Schwarz AU. Basing on prompts, because my fantasy isn't worth shit. 
> 
> The title is borrowed from magnificent [MADRUGADA](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pvfz896R8YQ&ob=av2e) ([here](http://oligarki.net/madrugada/lyric/higher) are the lyrics).

Schuldig would rather bite off his tongue than tell Crawford how damn cute he looks whenever he tries to keep up with him when they go backstage after a gig. He was more than once on the verge to asking him why he wouldn't just depose his spectacle case on top of a speaker box on stage. Or put some contact lenses in. No, Crawford puts the case always on top of the _fridge_.

"Every backstage room has a fridge," their bass-playing mole had declared once. "So, after the gig I just have to find the fridge." That's some fucked up way of tying a knot into your tissue, pal.

He shrugs and lights a cig. His and Crawford's hips and shoulders are touching with almost each step they take. Schuldig thinks it's unnerving, actually.

Maybe it's the heat radiating from the other's body.

Maybe it's his own heat and their proximity.

Maybe it's their colliding heat in this narrow and dark corridor.

Sometimes he catches himself waiting for Crawford to slide his hand underneath his belt: to make sure that he would absolutely not go lost during these ten metres to the room.

 _This is ridiculous._ Schuldig snorts and spews some phlegm into an especially dark corner of the corridor and goes on. "Good gig, don"t you think"

"Yes, I agree," Crawford murmurs. The shadows of his black bangs are hiding his face. The guy strangely avoids any eye-contact when they're on stage. Thus no glasses, probably. But at the same he’s the one organizing gigs and keeping the group together. Without his devotion to _Schwarz_ (one of the lamest names on Earth, Schuldig thinks), there would be no band. No under-aged prodigy shit, playing the lead guitar like some 50-year-old blues geek. And no Farf, blasting that drum kit like he has the stamina of an XTC addict.

Speaking of stamina... Schuldig glances at his companion who seems to be content enough, so his constant wrinkles are somewhat smoothened. Maybe-- if he squints real hard-- he might even detect some kind of smile hovering around his tight lips. He shudders and feels goose bumps along his spine. Well, this could also be the sweat running down and drenching the back of his trousers.

"Where are the others?" The redhead plucks at the buttons of his now uncomfortable vest and peels it from his upper torso. There is a pause in the darkness and Schuldig's elbows bump into Crawford; he's sure, the mole is breathing louder now.

"You know them," Crawford says somewhat tightly. "Nagi locked himself up in the bathroom for the next half our and the Farf is prowling for some piece of ass in the crowd."

Schuldig must laugh. "I'm impressed that his ephemeral conquests never leave him traumatised, though. He's just plain insane. Did he tell you about this straightjacket kink, once? I swear--"

Crawford pushes open the backstage door and flicks on the light. "Yes, he told me. Cut it."

Schuldig takes a quick glance. They got their own room, their own fridge (Crawford gets his spectacle case determined) and quite plenty of time, only the two of them. He drops onto some old and frayed cushions and receives the bottle of cold beer Crawford fetched for him. Knocks the lid off with his lighter. "Cheers," he drawls, clinks their bottles together and takes a long drag. Then he burps and lights another cig. Reclining he puts a leg over the opposite knee and drawls, "Tell me, Crawford. Do you ever feel high after a gig? Do you feel high _now_?"

Crawford joins him on the old sofa, limbs carefully not touching anymore. For he has his glasses again, of course. "I'm not sure. I guess not. I feel kind of satisfied, maybe. When the intro fades and we start playing in perfect sync - this is why I'm part of _Schwarz_. This hour of exactly timed percussion and chiselled guitar tunes. Also my bass, weaving all together," he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, "With your... voice and stage presence. I'm really glad I found you." He sounds strangely detached from the subject, but Schuldig has to smile.

"Well, that's good to hear," Schuldig chuckles. He kinda _knew_ that's what the mole was thinking; and he can decipher the detachedness and therefore rearranges himself on the cushions until he's lounging against the armrest, his ankles are crossed and put on Crawford's thigh. An ashtray is carefully balanced on Schuldig's bare belly. All Crawford can do is roll his eyes and sigh. Schuldig has to laugh and say, "You saw this coming, don't you?"

Crawford’s smile is broader now and Schuldig really likes the dimples; they make the smile more real and less creepy.

He's also glad he found Crawford.


	2. Hole in the Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This being the part when Crawford and Schuldig met for the first time during an [AUTOPSY](http://www.myspace.com/autopsyofficial) gig. They were young and hungry, sweating and kissing in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from mighty [AUTOPSY](http://www.myspace.com/autopsyofficial).
> 
> This is the prequel for [Higher](http://archiveofourown.org/works/387669).

They have of course met before they eventually decided to play together. At a concert. Hair flying and knotting, sweat sprinkling and beer cups throwing – in the moshpit in front of Autopsy. Must be fucking ages ago now.

Schuldig had berserked with Farf across the sweat and spit pits, Takatori, the fucker, shoving him especially harsh and he hammered against that mole's steely breast and eyes. Almost felling him.

Dude standing there with brick glasses sitting on his pointy nose and Schuldig staring at him aghast, because, hey? Don't just fucking stand there motionless.

"Watch it," Crawford's spectacles had flared.

Schuldig had held his gaze and pushed him, for good measure. Snarled.

Crawford had closed his eyes four seconds before the impact. Didn't step aside, didn't flinch. Made a resigned "Ooof!" sound and then, God knows why, joined the moshpit: It was the fucking best concert Schuldig witnessed in ages.

With the last encore ('Dead'), Schuldig was blotto and high. Still clinging to Crawford's trouser waistband, trying to keep steady, although the mole turned to go. Schuldig didn't relinquish, and joined the stumbling outside, giggling.

Kept on giggling when he fell against Crawford and pushed him against the brick wall of the narrow, dark street around the venue's corner.

Forgot giggling when he shared Crawford's breath for one, two seconds and their lips prickled. Crawford's fingers clawed Schuldig's flared Carcass shirt, torn here and there, sodden with several liquids. And Schuldig felt like stuck in an Autopsy song. Like being still squeezed in between Cutler's chords with Reifert pummelling his hungry teenager head. Yes, hungry. And searching. Testing, howling. Caught under his hormones' fire.

"Stop it," Crawford had whispered then with a moan.

And Schuldig had stopped it, smiling. Three weeks later he asked him, if he wanted to join his band. And Crawford agreed.


	3. Vision Conquest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawford persuades Schuldig to change his ratty NAPALM DEATH shirt for a fancy vest. Farfarello helps him, strange enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is borrowed from [NAPALM DEATH](http://www.napalmdeath.org/).

"Man, that's just-- I don't know-- gay?" Schuldig's laugh is small and insecure, different than yesterday evening. Then it was rich and voluptous, daring Crawford to just close his eyes and trust his instinct and senses. Plunge forward, strumming one lazy-fat riff from his bass after another.

"It would suit you on stage, I think. Suit _us_ , in fact." Crawford shrugs.

Schuldig pulls a face. "But it's my lucky shirt." He picks his frayed Napalm Death shirt. It's not black anymore but grey and the red parts of the _Harmony Corruption_ cover are flaking off.

"This could be your lucky _vest_ ," Crawford throws the velvety black vest at his singer.

They had shared another two, three kisses in drunken moods, after gigs, their own or others'. When they have been high on cheapest booze and giddy adrenaline. Kisses you share when you're thirsty and young, reckless.

"You look good in it," Crawford adds with a low voice. Schuldig shoots him an unreadable gaze.

"Watch out, Schu. He wants to be your pimp. He's without morals at all." Farfarello's snare resounds within the dingy cellar. Last week his first hit against the bass drum blasted out a sleepy rat. Nagi had only made gagging noises.

Crawford sighs.

"But he's right," Farfarello adds as an afterthought, grating dirt from beneath his fingernails with his Balisong. "It's gay. Like covering Depeche Mode songs." He snorts, then giggles. "Your punk days are over, boy. Face it: this is going to be pop music for all of us from now on." He looks at them, one after another. "I'll wear whatever it takes to get us this fucking record deal. If we're not there in half a year, I'm off and away."

Nagi nods bored, glancing at his guitar like sometimes it actually bites, and says: "I agree."

It's Schuldig's turn to sigh now. Crawford knows he has already won. Then the German huffs, "Fine." And strips down to bare his flesh, only clad in snug fitting bootcut blue jeans.

Crawford adjusts his glasses when Schuldig slips into the vest. The strawberry nipples are perking up against the leather. He shudders, and Schuldig mouth looks adorably pouty. Shit.

"There you go," Crawford murmurs softly.

Schuldig straightens his back. "Right, where did we stop before?"

Crawford nods and the feedback noise of his bass whimpers across the cellar floor. "Give your worst, guys."

Farfarello burps and throws his beer bottle behind himself, making it shatter into hundred sherds. "We were just warming up till now."


End file.
